Mourning Poem 3 Poem by Sheena Blackhall

The graves lie out in the wet
The living are home and dry
March...and the weather's dreich
Snow hills and a weeping sky

Buds pull their coats about them
Shivering in mist and rain
The hook-beaked curlew's calling
Like a spirit wracked with pain.

You have slipped from touch to memory
Under the sodden dew
Like the breeze that parts the moor-grass
Parts it and passes through

And I would give every treasure
To join you there in the rain
And rock you as in your childhood
In your ghostly counterpane